


A Study in Skyrim

by Black_Eyed_Angels



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, On the Run, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Eyed_Angels/pseuds/Black_Eyed_Angels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John is thrown in prison for attempted theft, he meets a mysterious man named Sherlock. Not only is Sherlock very powerful, but he has a deadly secret, which keeps him from venturing into the real world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red-Handed

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic over a year ago, but never finished it. I am posting it here now because I am going to work my butt off to get this finished, so I'll be submitting chapters over time and then will get to the newly written stuff.

John pushed through the big double gates of Whiterun. It was one of the places in Skyrim where it didn't snow (thank Talos for that), and it wasn't too crowded, which was good news for a newbie thief. A few years back, John never would have thought that he would become a burglar, but these were hard times, and it was when a man would do anything to stay alive. The war was raging, and to make matters even worse, the dragons had returned; big, brutal, scaly, element-breathing, violent dangerous, immensely strong dragons, which were attacking villages at random, destroying homes and taking lives. That was why John was a thief, and no longer a man of honour. Honour did not matter anymore; fighting did.  
~  
John slithered along the outer wall of the city, hiding from view. His plan was to break into a few houses, get some gold, and get out; and to be quick with it. He halted and observed. An old woman was leaving her house. She locked the door behind her, probably knowing that people were getting desperate in those hard times. John walked closer to the house, trying to look casual, before he pulled out a lock pick. Checking again for guards, he inserted it into the keyhole and fiddled around until he heard the click. He slipped inside, and went straight for the bedside table. He ripped open the top drawer and shuffled the contents around, looking for his gold.  
"Stop right there, criminal scum!"  
John whirled around and saw a Whiterun guard standing at the door, his sword at the ready. John raised his hands.  
"Please, I'm not armed, don't kill me! I just need money!"  
The guard marched forwards and grabbed John's shirt, pulling him close.  
"I should run you through right here, but the Jarl believes in giving people a second chance. Just. One."  
~  
He was taken to the dungeon and thrown in a cell. The dungeon smelt terrible, and the floor was hard and cold. There was a wooden bed frame with a sack thrown over the top in the corner, and a grate on the floor leading to the sewers beneath. John sat frozen in the place where he'd been thrown down, before he looked up at the sound of movement. He looked through the bars into the cell next to him. A figure glided out of the shadows. The man was tall and thin, with dark curly hair and high cheek bones – definitely an elf. He looked intrigued at the sight of the short Nord man in front of him.  
"What do you do to get thrown in here?" he asked in a smooth deep voice.  
"I broke into a house." John admitted, ashamed.  
"In broad daylight? Are you thick?" the elf asked.  
"It would seem so." John replied, a bit annoyed at the other prisoner's attitude. "So how about you then? You been here long?"  
"A while. They don't treat me too well, considering I help them an awful deal."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Those guards have no idea how to fight off dragons. They have to beg their prisoner for help."  
"Who are you?" John asked, wondering if this man had been locked up for being insane.  
"I'm Sherlock. Pleased to make your acquaintance…"  
"John."  
"Well John, pleased to meet a fresh face. Literally, it's not half as dirty as the others I've seen."  
"So Sherlock, what's it like in here then?" John asked, eyeing the dark dungeon.  
"Dull. It gets ever so boring. That's when I annoy the guards; it's fun. Don't you try it though; they'd probably kill you on the spot. They don't need you."  
"And they need you?"  
"Yes actually. I told you, to fight off the dragons."  
"I'm sorry, but I find it hard to believe a man in a cell can help slay dragons when the Whiterun guards can't."  
"Don't discriminate against cell people; you're one now."  
John dropped his gaze. That was true. He was now just like the other criminals.  
"You two, quit your lollygaggin'!"  
~  
The rest of the day went by silently before John tried to get comfortable in the sorry excuse for a bed. He didn't think he was going to get much sleep that night. He tossed and turned when he heard the dungeon door creak open. He laid still and shut his eyes. He heard the footsteps come closer.  
"Dragonborn," the guard's voice said.  
"What?" John heard Sherlock voice mutter.  
"There's an attack on Rorikstead. Come and sort it out."  
John heard a shuffle and another pair of feet hit the floor. A cell door was slid open and two pairs of footsteps moved away before the dungeon door shut again. John sat up and looked into Sherlock's cell.  
He was gone.


	2. The Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a painfully short chapter.

The next time a guard walked past John asked "Where have you taken Sherlock?"  
"None of your business, thief." The guard replied irritably.  
"Why did you call him Dragonborn? Is it true? Is he a Dragonborn?" John persisted. He needed answers.  
"Yes, he is the Dragonborn. He is the only one who can truly stop the dragons. Too bad he is extremely dangerous and untrustworthy." The guard pondered.  
"What do you mean?"  
"I don't have to tell you." The guard spat, turning to do another round of the cells.  
"Well that man has been helping you a lot by the sounds of it, so why do you keep him locked up like this?"  
"That is not your business. Now be quiet before I sew your mouth shut."  
~  
John had never been so bored in his life. Sherlock wasn't even there to talk to. He knew barely anything about the man, but at least he could have a conversation with him, unlike the guards. They wouldn't understand about the problems of the people. All they had to do was stand around and get paid for it. A lot.  
-  
Finally, the dungeon door was swung open again, and Sherlock was dragged back into his cell and thrown to the ground, the cell door being slid across and padlocked quickly.  
"Calm down, men, I'm safe." He smirked, and the guards hustled away quickly.  
Sherlock looked into John's cell. "Boring, isn't it?"  
"Very." John replied, sighing heavily.  
"I could escape you know." Sherlock spoke in a hushed tone. "But they know exactly who I am. Maybe you could get out. I could tell you how."  
"I don't know… anyway, if I was to get out, I'd bring you with me." John said in barely more than a whisper.  
Sherlock smiled for the first time that John has seen. "Why would you?"  
"Well, look at how they treat you." John paused. "Is it true that you're a Dragonborn?"  
Sherlock broke his gaze to John. "Yes." He muttered.  
"I've only heard the stories about them, but I won't judge by them. Tell me what a Dragonborn can do." John said, eager to know why the guards would give up their pride for this lanky man.  
"Well, Dragonborn can speak the tongue of dragons. Also, after we slay a dragon, we absorb their soul and gain their power."  
John sat in awe. "Wow. What is the tongue of dragons?"  
"Well, you know when dragons breathe fire or ice in battle?" Sherlock began.  
"Yes."  
"Well, to them, that's not a physical battle; not really. It's a battle of words." Sherlock paused, thinking of his next sentence. "When they speak their language, it's like they're casting a spell, which causes their fire or frost breath. So when I speak in the language of the dragons, I can use those powers."  
"You mean you can breathe fire?" John asked, astounded.  
"In a sense, yes. But it nearly always ends badly." Sherlock smirked.  
"That's all great and everything, but why do they keep you locked up like this when you're the only one who can stop the dragons? Why do they keep you in this dirty cell, and treat you like manure?"  
Sherlock gave a dark look. "They fear I will hurt people. They're 'keeping everybody safe' as they say."  
"What, they think you'd use your Dragonborn powers on people?"  
Sherlock stayed silent for a few seconds. "No," he said slowly.  
"What then? What's the reason they do this?"  
"It probably is best. I'm not safe. If I stay in here, I can't hurt anyone." Sherlock said sadly, and a sat on his wooden frame bed.  
John would have questioned further, but he saw that Sherlock didn't like to talk about the subject, whatever it was. Maybe when he trusted him more, he would tell him.


	3. Sherlock's Secret

The next day was a bit less boring, as the prisoners were let out of their cells to do some manual labour for Dragonsreach. John was left to chop firewood, Sherlock sorted the court wizard's tomes into alphabetical order and some of the other prisoners had jobs such as polishing the guards' shields and armour. If any of the prisoners talked they would be rammed in the back with a sword handle, so every kept to themselves until their work was finished.  
~  
John was guided back to his cell. After the door was slid shut, he asked "How much longer will I be in here?"  
"A few more months." The guard replied.  
John didn't think he'd met that guard before, as he didn't seem as rude as the many others he's met. A few more months might just kill him. He regretted everything. One stupid mistake meant this. He was deep in thought when he heard a hushed conversation from the guards at the other end of the hall.  
"I didn't realise til just before, it's his time now. It starts tonight."  
"Who, the Dragonborn?"  
"Yes. Secure the lock, and get some extra guards in here for the night."  
"Yes captain." There were footstep approaching.  
John chose a non-suspicious position so it wouldn't look like he was listening in. he looked into Sherlock's cell. He was curled up in the corner breathing heavily. John looked out the small window at the end of the hall. It looked like it was around sundown.  
Shortly after, about five extra guards came in and took their positions at different points of the dungeon. John crawled over to the edge of his cell.  
"Are you okay, Sherlock?" he asked through the bars.  
"Get away from me." He muttered warningly.  
John shuffled back a few feet. Sherlock glanced up at him.  
"Get right back, as far away as you can." John just stared back at him. "DO IT!" Sherlock roared.  
John quickly moved up into the furthest corner. The guards around clutched their swords after Sherlock shouted. John was worried. He had no idea what was happening. He kept his eyes on Sherlock. He was still curled up in the corner, but now he was shaking uncontrollably. He began to whimper and twitch, and some of the guards unsheathed their swords, while others turned their heads and looked out of the window. John followed their gaze. The sky was now deep blue. Sherlock was now writhing and the stone floor.  
"Prisoners get back!" the captain of the guard bellowed.  
All the other inmates sank into the dark corners of their cells. John continued to watch Sherlock. John was shaking on fear at the sight. What was going on.  
Sherlock shouted out in pain. He yelled, and writhed, and wriggled. He set his hands in front of him, breathing so hard that John could his whole back rise and fall. Sherlock jumped up and raised his arms in front of him, letting out a long growl. His body twitched, and it was deforming. John watched in horror as Sherlock's face stretched, and a hairy snout replaced his mouth. His ears grew and sprouted dark brown fur, and his arms bulged, his legs forming those of a beast, covering in fur. Finally the transformation was complete, and he flung his head up, and let out a long scary roar. He leaped forward at the bars, and was swiping into the hall with his long hands. Inch-long claws had grown from his fingertips. There was no doubt about what Sherlock was.  
He was a werewolf.


	4. A Plan for Purity

John was scared like the other prisoners, but there was something else. He felt sorry for Sherlock. Something that other people failed to notice was the look of pain on Sherlock's wolf face. Those eyes showed that the person inside was trapped inside that monstrous body, and even though their beast form may not think it, they wanted to get out.  
~  
John didn't get any sleep that night form the growling and scratching and whimpering that came from the adjacent cell. There was also the factor that some of the other prisoners thought it would be entertaining if they shouted insults to Sherlock in his wolf form. John wished they'd just shut their mouths, for everyone's sake.  
~  
John kept nodding off, about to fall into the realm of dreams, but was always jolted back to reality at the slightest noise. The next time this happened, he looked into Sherlock's cell to see the man himself sprawled across the floor. His body was tattered, scratches all over him. His chest was rising and falling slightly. John looked into the hall. There was only one guard patrolling now. John crawled to the edge of his cell.  
"Sherlock,"  
Sherlock's head turned, his dark curls falling in front of his eyes. He stared into John.  
"Are you okay?" John asked.  
"No." Sherlock replied shortly, but he sat up and faced John.  
"So that's why they keep you locked up?" John said sadly.  
Sherlock nodded. "I have no control when I have transformed. My only instinct is to rip and maul flesh."  
"I saw you though," John murmured.  
"What?"  
"I could still see you. Your eyes; I saw… the pain."  
Sherlock stared at John in amazement.  
"What?" John questioned.  
"You… you're still talking to me."  
"Yeah, I am."  
"You're not… scared? You don't hate me?"  
"Of course not! I don't hate you at all. I know it's out of your control. I know you're not really like that, Sherlock."  
Sherlock's eyes filled with tears. "I want it to stop. I can't do this anymore; I can't be like this."  
John's heart wrenched at the sight in front of him. He couldn't even imagine what it must be like. "Is there a way? Any way to… to stop it?"  
"I have heard there is. But I do not know how. That is why my escape is pointless."  
"What if I went with you?" John suggested.  
"What do you mean?"  
"I could help you find out how to cure yourself."  
"But where do we look?"  
"Well, I don't know about you, but when I think of something complicated and don't know how to do it, my thoughts go straight to the College of Winterhold."  
"The mages' college…" Sherlock pondered.  
"They're wise, aren't they? They know heaps of stuff, and they've got a library full of arcane books. We can escape from here, travel to the College, find out how to cure you, then do whatever needs to be done. You'll be a new man! In a sense anyway; you'll still be Sherlock."  
"We'll need to plan our escape. I know how to get out, but there's always a guard patrolling the area. But first, we must wait until my current cycle is over. It must be safe for you to travel with me."


	5. The Next Adventure

The next few days went by, and the nights with Sherlock's beast form were terrible, but John had tried to talk to the wolf-Sherlock to calm him down. It did work, but if another prisoner shouted at him, he would become vicious again.  
During the day, the two men would discuss their escape.  
"It will be the day after the cycle ends. When night falls, I act as if I am about to transform. The guard will leave quickly to get back up. I will use this," Sherlock held up a lockpick.  
"Where did you get that?" John asked in amazement.  
"I snatched it once when I went out for a job. They were bringing in one of those Thieves Guild lot. That's what I meant when you first came in, when I said I could escape if I wanted. I just had no reason to. So I use the lockpick to pick my lock, then I give it to you so you can pick yours open, while u get the grate in the floor open." Sherlock gestured to the iron grate in the middle of the dungeon floor, near the guard's watch. "We jump down there, and we go through the sewer system. We find the trapdoor which leads to the guard's barracks,"  
"What for?"  
"We search the confiscated items chest. Take some weapons and supplies. We get the hell out, and jump the wall behind Jorrvaskr. We run for Riverwood to get some food to bring on our journey. We travel to the next village, which will be Falkreath. We catch a carriage to Winterhold, then we're ready to go to the college."  
~  
The last night of Sherlock's cycle was different. John thought that even in wolf form, Sherlock knew that his suffering would soon be over. John was getting excited. He was going to get out. He didn't know what he'd do after he helped Sherlock. He wouldn't be any richer. He didn't have a family to go to. There was the thought of possibly staying with Sherlock, but what if he just wanted to do his own thing after being cured? What was to say that Sherlock would even care about associating with John anymore?  
-  
"John,"  
John was awoken from his thoughts. It was dawn.  
"Are you still ready for tonight?" Sherlock asked.  
"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"  
"I don't know. I was wanted to make sure you weren't having second thoughts."  
"No, I'm definitely not having any of those." John assured him. "By the way, what do you plan on doing after you're cured?"  
"I don't know. I might have to just find somewhere for work; just a little business or something, I mean, I don't think I'm strong enough to get a high-paying job like a sell-sword or anything like that. Not anymore."  
"Not anymore?"  
"I used to travel a lot. I was stronger then. Even after I was infected, I still was a warrior, I just made sure that by the full moon, I was in a secluded place away from any civilians. Then I was arrested for crimes against the Legion. I was at Helgen, about to be executed. You would have heard the story about the dragon, wouldn't you?"  
"Yes. It attacked Helgen, didn't it? Some of the prisoners escaped."  
"That's right. Then there was the dragon outside Whiterun, and the west watch tower. I fought it, and that's when I found out what I was. After slaying the dragon, it was like its soul went into me. I felt its power inside. The Jarl of Whiterun asked for my future help against the dragons, but when he found out about my disease, I was locked up for good measure, only to come out when it was safe and when help was needed."  
"Wow, you have quite an interesting story. It sounds like you've lost quite a bit." John said sadly.  
"I suppose so. But I'm sick of being a slave. I will still fight the dragons, but I won't do it for any Jarl or person of authority. I will do it for Skyrim."  
"You've got your next adventure planned ahead." John grinned.  
"What about you, John? What will you do after this?"  
"I don't know. I'm poor, I've got no family, and now I'm a criminal. Things aren't looking too good." John admitted.  
Was there really much point of him escaping?   
"Travel with me."  
"What?" John was so glad to hear those words.  
"Travel with me." He repeated. "It would be nice to have a companion."  
"Wow, thank you. I would love that. Maybe… you should charge for dragon slaying, don't you think? You can't really have a job, and kill dragons." John smirked.  
"That is true… that's a good idea. We will charge whoever wants the dragon slain."  
"We?"  
"Yes, you will help me or course! Killing dragons isn't just about using fancy words, I need a blade at my side."  
~  
Night was approaching – it was nearly time.  
Sherlock kept glancing over at John. When the sky outside turned a darker blue, Sherlock nodded in John's direction, and he started his pretend transformation.  
Sherlock shouted. He breathed heavily, and he writhed in his cell. The patrolling guard approached in alarm, and left the dungeon quickly. Sherlock reached inside his shirt and pulled out the lockpick, and he picked the lock on his cell until it clicked. He made his way out the cell, and threw the lockpick to John, who immediately began to pick the lock on his own cell, while Sherlock crouched over the grate on the floor. He grasped the bars and wrenched the cover off, leaving a square hole to the level below. He ran over to John and helped with the lock, clicking it open in a few seconds.  
"You go first," Sherlock gestured to the hole in the ground.  
John slipped himself down, and Sherlock followed behind, pulling the grate down with him, so it would sit back in its original place.  
John observed his surroundings. They were in a tunnel. The stone walls were wet, and he heard the sound of running water. Sherlock turned to John, with a look of excitement.  
"Let's go."


	6. Farewell to Whiterun

Sherlock observed his surroundings, and picked up an old torch stick. With the other hand, he ripped the bottom of his shirt, and wrapped the fabric around the end of the stick. John saw what Sherlock was doing.  
"How are you going to light it?"  
"Like this," Sherlock smirked.  
He muttered a strange word and the fabric set alight, causing the surrounding walls to glow. Sherlock began striding through the tunnel, while John trailed behind.  
"Is that one of your Dragonborn powers?"  
"Yes. They do come in very useful at the best of times."  
-  
The came to an open area, with more tunnels leading off from it. There were stone steps on the left side, which led up to a large tunnel.  
"This way." Sherlock led the way up the steps, and through the wet tunnel, Sherlock's head nearly scraping on the top.  
They came to a small room, where Sherlock halted and passed the torch to John.  
"Here's the trapdoor." Sherlock stretched his arms up and slid the bolt on the door to the right. "I'll give you a leg-up. Open the door slightly to check that no one is around. When it's clear, you climb up, then pull me up."  
John stepped forward, torch in hand.   
"We won't be needing that anymore." Sherlock took the torch off John and threw it to the ground.  
Sherlock laced his fingers together and held his hands in front of him. John stepped onto his hands, ad reached up to the trapdoor. He pushed it open slightly while balancing on Sherlock's hands. He looked around the well-lit storeroom. There wasn't a sign of a living being.  
"Clear." John whispered down at Sherlock.  
Sherlock raised his hands and John opened the trapdoor fully and heaved himself up. He crawled out of the hole and looked back down. Sherlock looked up from below, his blue-grey eyes glowing in excitement. John reached an arm down, and Sherlock grasped it. John pulled the extremely light man up until he was able to climb out of the hole. The two men stood up straight and glanced at each other. Both their hearts were beating quickly. Sherlock stepped towards the door an opened it ever so slightly. He peered through with one eye into the next room. After a moment, he moved back and closed it very slowly.  
"There's one guard in there, sitting at the table with his back to us. If you could take him out… I think you have a better chance at it than me, you've not been locked up for long." Sherlock whispered.  
John was saddened at the last comment. He didn't actually know how long Sherlock had been locked up, but by the look of the gaunt man in front of him, and how used to prison life he seemed to be, he guessed it had been quite a long time.  
John stepped up to the door and opened it slightly as Sherlock had done. The guard was sitting at a wooden table to the left. He had his feet up on the table and was leaning back on the chair. John opened the door wider cautiously. He took a slow step out of the storeroom, and then another. He was just three feet away from the guard. He held his breath, scared of being heard, and then used all the strength he could muster for his next move: he punched the guard in the head, and he fell to the floor. He was out cold. John had to do it right the first time, as the slightest noise of a distraction could ruin everything. John looked back to the storeroom. He nodded to Sherlock and beckoned him to come forward. Sherlock stepped out of the room, and moved swiftly to the chest which was near the bookcase. He got out the lockpick and picked the padlock on the chest until it clicked. He opened the chest and searched through the items inside. He pulled out iron daggers, and a few coin purses, as well as some fur armour and leather armour. John approached the chest and looked inside. He saw a bow that took his fancy, so he grabbed it and searched for a quiver to go with it.  
"We should put on these clothes so we look less like prisoners, otherwise we'll be asking for execution. Take your pick of the armour and go and change in the storeroom. I'll search for more supplies in here." Sherlock instructed while shuffling through the chest.  
John picked up the leather armour and took it to the storeroom. He pulled it on hastily. It felt much heavier than it should after wearing the loosely woven tunic he'd been ordered to wear when he arrived at the prison. After changing, he came out of the storeroom and hoisted the bow and quiver over his back.  
"Now you," John nodded towards the storeroom.  
Sherlock picked up the fur armour and disappeared in the storeroom. John inspected all the items that Sherlock had gathered. It looked like he had begun to pack a rucksack, so John shoved the rest of the supplies in the bag. Sherlock came out of the storeroom shortly after, looking extremely different, although the bulky armour made him look even skinnier.  
"Have you put everything in the rucksack?" he asked.  
"Yes; are we ready?"  
"I believe we are. When we exit this building, try not to look too shifty. We will need to walk near guards to get where we need to; nearer than I'd like, but it's the only way."  
Sherlock led the way to the next door. He pushed it open, and beckoned John to follow. They walked down the cobbled path alongside the city wall. Soon after, the Dragonsreach bridge was visible. There was one guard in the bridge, and two standing at each side of the beginning of the bridge. John looked at Sherlock for an explanation. This seemed much too risky.  
"You see the water down there?" Sherlock gestured to the small mote.  
"Yes,"  
"We can jump down onto the moat barrier. It's a stone ledge, and it's quite wide, we should be able to do it. You go first."  
John approached the edge of the path and looked down. Sherlock was right. About six feet down was a stone ledge. John looked back at Sherlock, and Sherlock nodded in permission. John jumped and landed on the ledge with a soft thud. He looked back up to Sherlock and stepped back to let him jump. Sherlock landed moments after.  
"Alright, now, jump off here to the town below. You see that wide staircase just over there? That leads to Jorrvaskr. We'll go behind the building at the top of steps, and jump the wall. Follow me now."  
Sherlock walked ahead, into the Gildergreen courtyard, and turned to the left, and began to walk up the stone steps to Jorrvaskr. John followed behind, trying to look natural as Sherlock had instructed. When they finally got to the top of the stone steps, they curved around the building and to the other side, which looked like a training ground. There were straw dummies spread across the clear ground. Sherlock stepped up the city wall, and felt the surface.  
"I'm going to need to give you another leg-up." Sherlock realised.  
John approached Sherlock, and the thin man clasped his hands together again, and stood ready for John to step on. John stepped onto Sherlock's hands, and reached for the top of the city wall. He grasped it, and heaved himself onto the top of the wall. He didn't jump yet, as he wanted to make sure Sherlock got up alright. Sherlock leaped up and wrapped his long hands around the edge of the stone wall, and used protruding rocks to help him climb up. He also stopped when he was at the top of the wall, and looked down the other side.  
"That's at least ten feet; do you think you'll be okay to make it?" Sherlock asked.  
"I'm going to have to, aren't I? we can't go back now."  
John looked down again. He heart was pumping with adrenaline. He slid off the edge, and his feet hit the ground hard, his legs buckled, and he ended up in a heap on the ground. He groaned in pain when Sherlock landed next to him, almost like a cat, or perhaps that was how werewolves landed…  
"I am sorry John, I misjudged the height of the wall; forgive me."  
"It's alright," John said; his legs were still a bit sore, but they didn't feel as bad as they did when he first landed.  
Sherlock and John's eyes met, and they grinned at each other.  
"We did it," Sherlock said, amazed.  
"Yes. I really took advantage of the fresh air before." John inhaled deeply.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, when a loud noise disrupted him. The noise kept going.  
"Alarm bells," Sherlock murmured. "Run!"  
The two men stood up as fast as they could, and bolted through the wind, the sound of the town's alarm bells being their farewell from Whiterun.


	7. The Journey to Winterhold

Sherlock and John ran towards the river.  
"I suppose they found the guard out cold." John panted.  
"We should have hidden it." Sherlock said. "It was a stupid mistake."  
"Sorry." John exhaled.   
They'd just met the river, and were now running alongside it.  
"It's not your fault. At least we got out of town before they noticed; otherwise I don't think we'd have any hope." Sherlock said while slowing his pace. "We should be safe to move at a brisk walk. News of our escape wouldn't have reached Riverwood yet."  
They kept walking, and John spotted a stone bridge, and behind it, the small village of Riverwood. They crossed the bridge when they got to it, and Sherlock took lead. They entered a building; it was a general goods store. There was the ring of a bell when Sherlock pushed the door open, and their gaze was met by that of the shopkeeper.   
"I was just about to close up." the Dark Elf spoke in rough voice.  
"Please, we won't be long; we just want to buy some food." Sherlock said in the kindest voice he could manage.  
"I suppose I'll be nice. What do you want then?" the shopkeeper asked.  
"What food do you have?" John asked; he was getting nervous about the guards finding them.  
"Well, we got cheese, some vegetables, and I got some bread in this mornin'. It's just the things that are left over from today."  
"How much for all of it?" Sherlock got out the coin purse.  
"Let me see… that'd be twenty-three gold."  
"Do you have any flasks?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yes, eleven gold each."  
"We'll take two flasks, and all your food stock."  
"That comes to thirty-four gold."  
Sherlock picked the coins out of the coin purse and handed them to the shopkeeper, who counted the money. He then got the items from behind the counter and pushed them towards his customers.  
"A pleasure doing business with you. Have a nice night."  
Sherlock took the food and shoved it in the rucksack, and beckoned John to follow him out the shop, passing his companion one of the flasks. They walked to the riverside and dipped the flasks in the water for them to fill up.  
"Now," Sherlock started, putting his flask in the rucksack. "We head for Falkreath."  
~  
The walked and walked until their legs were tired, but they had to keep walking, not always sticking to the paths as to avoid bandits.  
"We don't want any unnecessary trouble." Sherlock said the first time they strayed off path.  
When the village of Falkreath was in sight, Sherlock found a crevice in the nearby small cliff, for them to sleep off the rest of the night.  
"The carriage should be ready to take business at dawn. We should try to get some rest. The gods know we deserve it." Sherlock pulled out two bedrolls from the rucksack.  
He really had prepared quite well. John lay down on his, enjoying the feeling of finally being able to lie down. He closed his eyes and soon enough, he was asleep.  
~  
John was jolted awake to see Sherlock's face hovering above him.  
"We should go." He said, and he turned and picked up the rucksack. As soon as John stood up, Sherlock was rolling up the second bedroll.  
John walked with Sherlock along the village path, feeling a lot more relaxed for several reasons. They found the carriage; two horses were attached to it, and the coachman sitting at the front of the carriage, with a long grey beard and sunken eyes.  
"How much is it for a ride to Winterhold?" Sherlock looked up at the coachman.  
"Hmm, I'll make that about ten gold. It gets awfully chilly up there." The bearded man said.  
Sherlock handed the necessary coin to the man.  
"Hop on board! I haven't gone for an early ride in while."  
Sherlock and John climbed into the carriage and sat on the wooden seat. There was a jolt as the carriage started moving.  
~  
Hours later, the carriage stopped moving, and the weather was much colder than it was back in Falkreath.  
"Here you are!" the coachman smiled as the two men hopped out of the carriage.  
John bid his thanks as Sherlock walked off straight away. John jogged to catch up. As he was walking, Sherlock swung the rucksack off his shoulder, and reached inside. He pulled out a deep green cloak and threw it to John. John caught it quickly and looked at Sherlock in surprise.  
"Does that bag have a bottom?"  
"Unfortunately, yes." Sherlock said, pulling out a second cloak for himself.  
John tied his cloak around his shoulders, very grateful that Sherlock had packed so well.  
At the end of the road was the stone path which led to the College of Winterhold. They stepped onto the bridge and made their way across. It led to the magnificent building – tall and arcane in looks. They arrived at the front gate, which was unfortunately closed. John cursed, and looked through the bars. A few moments later, somebody came out of a pair of double doors. They were wearing beige robes, their hood pulled up to resist against the cold.  
"Excuse me!" John called into the courtyard.  
The person's head turned, and they approached them. The woman arrived at the gate.  
"How can I help you?" she asked with a kind smile.  
"Well, um, we need some knowledge." John said, not sure if straight out saying they wanted a cure for lycanthropy was such a great idea.  
The woman laughed, and much to John's surprise, unlocked the gate to let them in.  
"We definitely offer that here." She said, inviting them in. "What kind of knowledge do you need?"  
"Um…" John wasn't actually sure how to go about this situation.  
"If it's a case of embarrassment, I've heard many, many things, so please don't hesitate." The woman smiled.  
"Okay, well… we were wondering if you knew about a cure for lycanthropy." John spoke quickly.  
"I personally only know a small amount of knowledge about that, but I'm sure another mage will be able to help you. Follow me and we'll get inside to the warmth."  
The kind mage led them past a tall statue of a wizard, and through some of the biggest doors John had ever seen. Indeed it was wonderfully warm inside. John smiled at the welcoming change, and observed his surroundings. There was another set of gates that led to a tall, circular room, which had a strange kind of blue pool in the middle, from which a ray a blue light shone right up to the ceiling. The female mage stepped forward and unlocked the gates. She poked her head inside and called into the room.  
"Vistha, are you there?" her voice echoed.  
A figure stepped out of the shadows and approached the gate. When the light revealed his face, they could see he was an Argonian. His scales glittered in the candlelight.  
"What is it, Molly?" he asked the female mage.  
"These gentlemen would like to know about the cure for lycanthropy. Would you be able to help them?"  
"Certainly." Vistha said, turning to Sherlock and John, bowing. "Follow me to the Arcanaeum. We should be able to do some proper research to make sure you go about this cure properly."   
He gestured to the staircase on the left, and John turned to Molly. "Thank you for your help."  
"No problem." She smiled  
Sherlock, John and Vistha climbed the staircase, and when John looked over at Sherlock, he could see that he was eagerly excited; and so was John.


	8. Werewolves in Whiterun

The Arcanaeum was a large circular room. The floor was lowered in the middle with a desk and bookcases on each side, and another desk at the far end, piled with books, with what must have been the librarian behind it. Vistha approached the librarian and spoke to him quietly. He nodded and proceeded to take several books of the shelves and place them on one of the central desks. The librarian retreated back to his own desk. Vistha looked up at Sherlock and John and gestured for them to come to him.  
“The cure for lycanthropy is not common knowledge.” He started. “It may take some time to find out the way to do it.”  
Sherlock and John shared a look.  
“Don’t worry,” Vistha added. “We will find a way.”  
The three men all sat around a single desk which was littered with open books; some with grotesque drawings, some with very small font, and even some in different languages. John skimmed through the books, trying to spot anything to do with a cure, but a lot of the books were obviously written by people who were extremely prejudice against lycanthropes, and only stated how to successfully slay them. John could tell Sherlock was losing hope. When they first arrived at the college, there was an excited gleam in his eye. That was no longer present, and he was frowning sadly as he flicked through the old tomes.  
“Sherlock,” John said quietly. “We’ll find a way, don’t worry. We won’t stop until we find a way.”  
-  
“Here is something.” Vistha remarked suddenly.  
Sherlock quickly leaned across the desk to examine the old book in front of Vistha.  
“For many years, The Companions in Whiterun have offered members of The Circle the gift of lycanthropy.”  
“Werewolves in Whiterun? Sherlock was locked up for being a werewolf!” John exclaimed angrily.  
“It is a secret within The Circle.” Vistha pondered. “But think of this: The Companions see lycanthropy as a gift, and they know how to give the gift to their initiates. Perhaps they also know how to cure it. We must speak to one of the members of The Circle.”  
“I can’t go back to Whiterun.” Sherlock stated. “I’m a wanted man.”  
Vistha thought for a moment. “Maybe we could get one of The Companions to come here. There would be a price of course.”  
“We only have about a hundred and twenty gold left.” John muttered.  
“That may be enough; I will have to see. I will have one of the apprentices send a letter to Whiterun to ask if they will assist us. You can stay in Winterhold while awaiting a reply. When is your next cycle?”  
“Not for another two or three weeks.” Sherlock replied.  
“Alright, you can stay in The Frozen Hearth Inn in town. I will come to you when I get a reply.”  
-  
About a week later, Vistha came to see John and Sherlock.  
“Good news,” he reported. “One of The Companions is on their way now. They have agreed to help you; they know a cure.”  
Sherlock must have been holding his breath, as he let out a long sigh of relief and even smiled. It was really happening: he was going to be cured.  
-  
Three days later, John and Sherlock were summoned to the College. They met in Vistha’s quarters so they would have some privacy. They were met by Vistha, and a woman with Auburn hair and dark green war paint across her face.  
“This is Aela.” Vistha introduced her.  
“You’re the werewolf, aren’t you?” Aela looked at Sherlock.  
“Yes, how did you-”  
“I’ve seen that look before, on an old friend. He saw lycanthropy as a curse, not a blessing. We honoured his last request and cured him.”  
“How is it done?” Sherlock inquired.  
“It’s not exactly easy, but if you know how to put up a good fight, it’s manageable. You need to severed head of a Glenmoril Witch, then take it to Ysgramor’s Tomb. There you need to draw the wolf from your body, and defeat it.”  
“What do you think, Sherlock?” John turned to his friend.  
“I don’t know if I could manage it by myself.”  
“I’ll be there.” John assured him.  
“I know,” Sherlock replied. “But the Glenmoril Witches have very powerful magic.”  
“That is true.” Vistha added.  
“I could assist you.” Aela offered.  
“We wouldn’t have enough gold, and I haven’t even paid you for your journey here yet.” John answered sadly.  
“Don’t worry about that, I came here by choice. I will always help a fellow wolf. I will require payment if I am to assist you further, however. It is a dangerous mission.”  
John and Aela settled on one hundred gold for the extra assistance.  
“We’ll head out tomorrow morning. Glemoril Witches can be found west of Lake Ilinalta near Riverwood. We’ll go there to get the head, and then come back up to Ysgramor’s Tomb; which is north-west of here.”  
“Sounds good.” John smiled.  
Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Yes, it does.”


	9. The Glenmoril Witches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say thank you so much for all the kudos! It is so great to know that people have been enjoying this story.  
> I knew from the beginning that this story would only be a short one, so I am telling you now that there is only ONE CHAPTER TO GO! I'm leaving at a nice round number.
> 
> This chapter has a battle scene, and I'll tell you a secret: writing battle scenes scares me! They are hard to write and they always seem messy to me, so I hope it's bearable! (If not, sorry!)

John paid the carriage driver with the remaining gold. He didn’t know how they were going to get more when they needed it, but he put that thought aside.  
Aela talked about The Companions during the bumpy carriage ride, but John had stopped listening a while ago. He was worried about the battle ahead. He knew that Aela was a huntress, and Vistha was a skilled mage, but the Glenmoril witches were very powerful. He was playing out scenarios in his head when his thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock, who spoke for the first time since they’d got on the carriage.  
“By the time we get to Lake Ilinalta, it’ll be the full moon.” He stated.  
John and Vistha looked to Aela.  
“I know.” Aela responded. “That can be used to our advantage. You can control yourself, can’t you?” she looked to Sherlock.  
“I managed alright until I got locked up.”  
We’ll plan to attack at night. When the moon rises, you and I can go on ahead. John and Vistha can back us up.”  
“I should be up front, the witches use powerful magic, and I can use magic against them.” Vistha insisted.  
Aela agreed, and then all eyes were on John. He flushed.  
“I… I don’t think I’ll be much help to be perfectly honest. I’ve encountered a few bandits here and there but I think I’d be dead within five seconds against a witch.”  
“John should stay back. We don’t want him to get in the way of two werewolves.” Sherlock said.  
John felt absolutely useless. There really wasn’t much point of him coming along. He’d probably just be a burden.  
-  
John and Sherlock bowed their heads as they passed Whiterun. If they were found by the guards, it would ruin everything.   
The carriage drove through Riverwood, and they stopped by the lake. They thanked the driver and got out. John looked up at the darkening sky. I was be the first night of the full moon, and it would be the first time that John saw Sherlock change outside of prison. Aela talked through their strategy again before Sherlock turned to John.  
“I know you’ll probably want to try to help, but you really need to stay back. I haven’t turned in the wild for a long time; I don’t know what will happen.”  
John nodded in agreement. He just hoped everything would run smoothly.   
John, Sherlock, Vistha and Aela headed west from the lake. They walked at a fast pace as the sky darkened further. Any moment now, the moon would come out, the Sherlock and Aela would transform. Aela motioned for the group to stop when there were a few metres from the witches’ cave, behind a large rock.  
“John, this is where you’ll stay while Sherlock, Vistha and I fight the witches.” Aela commanded.  
She looked up at the sky. A dark cloud moved aside to reveal a brilliantly bright moon, perfect and round. John saw Sherlock look up from beside him when he was pushed roughly away.  
“Stay back.” Sherlock warned.  
Aela was on the ground, her head down, resting on her knee, her arms out in front of her. John could see her back rising and falling. Sherlock stumbled to the ground. It almost looked like he was cowering under the moonlight. He was panting, his face shining with sweat. Aela was now standing confidently. She’s done this many times before. She knew how to control it after all that time. It was a gift that she nurtured.   
Sherlock felt the curse taking over his body; he writhed and let out a loud shout. Vistha looked towards the cave in panic. Surely the witches would have heard that. Sherlock cried out again, until the cry turned into a deep roar. His body had changed; large, brown and furry; he muscly limbs looking lethal. John looked over to Aela. He was expecting to see something different, but he had changed to something just as monstrous, but perhaps looked a little bit less shaggy than Sherlock.   
A bright light flew past John’s head, bursting into flame as it hit the ground. John spun around in shock. Two… (women?) came out of the cave. They were tall and thin with long limbs, and bird-like legs. Their feet looked like those of an eagle and their hands were large and clawed. They had the faces of old women with hooked noses and all-red eyes. Vistha fired back his own spell, a long lightning bolt shot out of his hand and hit one of the witches in the arm. John was frightened for everyone’s life, but he did as he was instructed and stayed behind the rock. Sherlock leapt towards one of the witches and knocked her down, but she fired a spell at Sherlock and he was thrown back violently. John’s heart jolted, but still, he remained in his place. His heart was pounding; Aela took a great swipe at one of the witches, leaving four wide gash marks across the witch’s chest. Vistha charged up a frosty white spell in his hands, and fired it at the other witch, paralysing her. Sherlock leapt forward again, pinning her down. He took several deadly swipes at the paralysed witch until she was left unmoving. John felt a wave of relief. One witch was down. Aela was still battling with the other witch. Even though Aela was a very powerful, she was no match for the witch’s magic. Sherlock crawled menacingly from behind the witch, and locked his jaw around her ankle. The witch wailed, and Sherlock pulled, bringing her to the ground. Vistha fired another lightning bolt, and held the spell so the witch was shaking from the electricity surging through her body. When Vistha let go of the spell the witch was still.   
John stared for a moment before coming to his senses. He ran over to his rucksack and pulled on the sword’s hilt from the leather sheath. He drew out the sword and jogged over to one of the witch’s bodies. He looked around at the other. Sherlock and Aela were circling the other witch to make sure she was dead, and Vistha was watching John. He held up the sword above his head, and brought it down hard, slicing through the witch’s neck. He picked up the ugly head with disgust, blood dripping heavily from the cut. Sherlock raised his wolfish head and looked to the head hanging from John’s hand. He gave a short growl and reared his head. John took this as a positive sign. They were yet another step closer to the cure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for this story's conclusion in the FINAL CHAPTER, "Spirit of the Wolf + Epilogue"


	10. Spirit of the Wolf + Epilogue

For the remaining nights of the full moon, John and Vistha camped in the witches’ cave, while Sherlock and Aela spent their nights in the mountains. They believed it would be the safest thing to do.  
John kicked what appeared to be rat bones against the cave wall.  
“This place is disgusting.” He said.  
“The Glenmoril witches don’t care much for hygiene.” Vistha remarked, clearing a space for him to sit by the fire.  
They’d prepared a fire after collecting firewood from outside. The small, flickering fire gave the dank cave an orange glow.  
“How did you and Sherlock meet?” Vistha asked.  
“We met in prison.” John poked a stick in fire, shifting one of the logs. “We escaped together. I think he’d known exactly how to escape for a long time, but he just didn’t know what he’d do on the outside.”  
“So you escaped and came to the college?” Vistha inquired.  
“Yes. I saw him transform not long after I was thrown in the Whiterun dungeon. He’d said he’d heard of a cure, but didn’t know what it was; so I just thought of the College; not sure why. I guess it just seems like a place of knowledge; I suppose I just thought someone might know something. So we devised an escape plan and went to the College; and now, here we are.”  
“What are you going to do after Sherlock is cured?”  
“I don’t know.” John frowned. “When we were in prison, we did talk about becoming some sort of… sellswords. We will have to stay hell away from Whiterun Hold, though.”  
“The sellsword trade can be a tough business. You need to prove your strength for anyone to hire you.” Vistha explained.  
“I think Sherlock could do that.”  
John imagined Sherlock using The Words to slay a dragon. Surely if he was seen doing that, anyone would be willing to pay him for his services. John just hoped that after all this was over, that Sherlock would still want him. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.  
-  
With equipment and severed head all packed and ready, and everyone back in human form, Sherlock, John, Aela and Vistha caught a carriage from Riverwood. Ten minuted into the ride, just outside of Whiterun, Aela told the driver to stop.  
“This is where I’ll say goodbye.” She turned to her fellow passengers. “I’m afraid I feel I should get back to The Companions, so I’ll leave you to finish your quest. I wish you all the best with your endeavour, and I hope you may put your wolf spirit to rest and that you find peace.”  
“Thank you for your help.” Sherlock spoke gratefully.  
“Yes, thank you so much; we couldn’t have done it without you.” John added.  
She shook hands with the men, and stepped out of the carriage, paying the driver the remaining gold for the journey.  
“Farewell.” She said, and she gave a nod, and headed to the Whiterun gate.  
-  
Days passed, with daily stops to make camp and get some rest, but they finally arrived at Ysgramor’s Tomb. The entrance was a circular pit in the ground, with very old and worn stone steps leading down around the edge of the pit. Sherlock, John and Vistha stepped down, one after the other. At the bottom of the pit was an ornate double door which looked very old. Sherlock placed a hand on one of the doors, looked back at the others who nodded encouragingly, and pushed it open. They stepped inside and were hit by the strong smell of dust and damp earth. The first room had a statue (presumably of Ysgramor) in the centre, and two wide pillars on each side of it.  
“Do you know what you have to do?” John turned to Sherlock.  
“Yes, Aela told me.” Sherlock walked around the statue and through an arced doorway on the other side. His companions followed.  
John followed Sherlock through the dank tunnel, breaking through thick spider webs, the silk sticking to his body as he pushed his way through it. They walked for quite a while, twisting and turning. Aela must have given Sherlock directions, unless he had no idea where he was going, but that was unlikely. After about five minutes of uneventful walking, Sherlock came to a halt. They were in a large chamber with a high ceiling. In the centre of the room was a stone basin, with a blue fire burning inside.  
“We’re rather lucky that The Companions were in here not too long ago. Apparently they ran into a fair bit of trouble then.” Sherlock pondered, staring into the flame. “I need the head.”  
John opened the rucksack and pulled out the head. He hoped he’d never have to see, touch or smell anything like it ever again. He handed it to Sherlock, who took it from him and placed it in the blue flame. For a few seconds, nothing happened. The flames licked the sides of the witch’s head and suddenly Sherlock keeled over and let out a pained shout.  
“What’s happening?” John asked, panicked.  
“I think it’s the wolf spirit.” Vistha replied, looking on, his mouth slightly ajar in fascination.  
Sherlock’s limbs flung back, and ghostly blue wolf leapt out of his torso. John fumbled around in the rucksack and unsheathed the sword. Vistha charged a spell, and he threw a handful of fire at the spectral beast. It reared its head in anger and turned to John. John’s heart was racing; the wolf leapt towards him and John clenched his eyes shut and held the sword out in front of him. The wolf jumped upon the blade and let out an ear-popping yelp. It writhed, trying to dismount from the sword as Vistha fired another spell, and the wolf was still. John dropped the sword and ran to Sherlock who was crouched on the ground, his back rising and falling with heavy breaths.  
“Are you alright?” John knelt beside him.  
“Yes.” Sherlock panted. He raised his head and grinned widely at John. “We did it.”  
“That was quite extraordinary.” Vistha approached from behind them. “I have never seen anything quite like it.”  
John helped Sherlock to his feet.  
“I already feel different.” Sherlock spoke. “I feel… lighter.”  
“Well, you can get a few days’ rest, but then we’ve got to get our business up and running.” John smirked.  
“Forget the few days’ rest; we need to start planning now.”

 **EPILOGUE**  
Vistha returned to the College, feeling wiser than he did when he left. He provided Sherlock and John with food and water for their journey, and they were on their way. They headed to Dawnstar to find work, and they got their first job together, slaying Forsworn not far out of the town of Morthal. They worked well together as a team. John had some experience with a sword and Sherlock used his Shouts to his advantage. They were quite the sight when in action, and worked up quite a reputation in the western holds. They sent a letter to Aela in Whiterun to tell her everything went well, and to pay her for her services as thanks.  
John was thankful to Sherlock, for his life now had meaning and he earned his keep through honest work, and in the company of a friend. Sherlock was thankful to John for getting thrown in prison that one day, for Sherlock was never furry and fanged again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who’s read this story all the way through. I do apologise for its short length, but my writing style for this tale didn’t go in depth enough to make it a longer story, and also the plot was rather simple. But overall, I am happy with it, and I hope you may stick around for future stories!  
> Before I sign off, I’d like to tell you lovely readers about an idea I have, and ask your opinion on it. So, a friend of mine gave me the idea of writing a little series of stories that go with this one. So they’d be set after this story, but they’d be like cases with Sherlock and John in Skyrim. It’d be like some insight into what they got up to after Sherlock was cured! What do you think?  
> I’m not completely sure if I will actually do it yet, but I do really like the idea, so tell me if you’d be interested!  
> Thank you so much again for your support, kind words, and patience! (For you readers from DeviantArt and Fanfiction.net who had to wait over a year for chapter 8)  
> Goodbye, my friends!


End file.
